I prefer to deal with topics on a spiritual, philosophical, or metaphysical level, but every once in a while a little ranting needs to be done – a bit of venting is a good thing for the body, mind, and soul.
Today we’re dealing with an idiosyncrasy that seems to be universal to every supermarket lineup. The issue? What the fuck is the deal with old people trying to pay for groceries? You would think that 95 years of practice dealing with cash would make you something of an expert on the subject. You would also think that it would cease being a surprise at some point in your life, like when you bought your first fucking gumdrop, that after your items have been tallied, that’s the cue for you to cough up some greenback.
First comes the massive pause between having their last item bagged, and realizing that the cash-containing, stupid fucking zipper purse they carry isn’t in their hand – it’s buried in an even bigger stupid fucking zipper purse.
And so the old-person-paying-process begins.
Next comes one of two things. After the endless search for the smaller stupid fucking zipper purse, either plastic cards or paper bills must be removed from the stupid fucking zipper purse. Both scenarios make me want to cut my throat and bleed all over the piles of processed shit sitting on the conveyor belt – each pile separated by plastic divider bars that everyone but me puts down to say, “These are my groceries! I don’t care if you place your bananas 3 feet behind my chicken thighs, skim milk, and 6-pack of Hamburger Helper, I need the safety and security of knowing my items are walled off from yours.”
Scenario A – Plastic Cards
This is just plain punishing. Considering there are at least 15 different cards neatly inserted into slots in the stupid fucking zipper purse, the crusty geriatric seems to have no knowledge whatsoever of what the markings on them mean, or how they work. Perhaps credit cards were more straightforward to use 50 years ago when they had to be imprinted on carbon paper – the clerk did all the work. With the plastic card now being wielded by the old fuck, the excruciating process of trial and error never seems to foster results.
Even after allowing the 15-year-old cashier make an executive decision on which card would be most effective in this highly confusing situation, to watch a grizzled fossil attempt to orient a magnetic stripe correctly is like watching a retarded chimp trying to stick a dildo up its ass. And, for some reason, old people do not seem to get the memos when new technologies have been added to society. Forget swiping it, Betty-Jean, you can slide the chip into the bottom slot that you don’t know exists. But you don’t even need to worry about taking 12 minutes to align your card to do that anymore, because you can just tap the fucking thing on the sensor and spare us all the impossible process of having to press 4 numbers (FOUR, not 6 or 12 or 15, FOUR!) into a numerical keypad. It’s four fucking numbers! Did I mention that?
Why must the phrase, “let me try that again” be uttered at least three more times before any transaction can take place? Tap the fucking card and hobble back to your car before your bones disintegrate.
Scenario B – Cash
Perhaps worse than the magnetic card fiasco is the cash handling process. As Grandma Sawdust reaches into her stupid fucking zipper purse, a look of bewilderment immediately comes over her face, as if cash had just been invented 3 minutes early in the day.
The numbers, the colours, the crazy pictures, what does it all mean?
And why must there be a strategy to pay a 55 dollar tab when 3 twenties are clearly hanging out of your stupid fucking zipper purse? Because that would be too easy and efficient – best first consider some different permutations of effective small and large bill combinations, something that will provide flexibility if the need might arise to stuff an undetermined denomination into some wanker kid’s cup begging for camping money donations in front of the building.
And worst of all comes the change. The bill comes to $59.85, but the 3 twenties don’t get handed over without hesitation. Hell no. The attempt to provide exact change begins. The inner change pocket in the stupid fucking zipper purse should be abolished as a kindness to humanity, which would likely result in a noticeable decline in daily supermarket stabbings. The coins are as much a mystery to Old Man Greyballs as the bills are. They get randomly handed over to the poor girl behind the counter like a 5-year-old offering boogers to his babysitter.
As everyone in line starts thanking Allah that the fiasco has come to an end, the animated mummy suddenly blurts out, “Is it too late to use my coupons?”
If we choose to continue to let the decrepit roam the streets freely, the Canadian government should declare self-scanners to be mandatory supermarket equipment, without exception.
Ahhh, I do feel better….